


Recreational Linguistics

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a large and often obscure vocabulary. Sometimes John struggles to keep up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recreational Linguistics

**Malneirophrenia: the distressed state of mind following a nightmare.**

He can't stay in his room. The walls are too blank, allowing the images of blood and fire from his dream to be painted across them. He stumbles downstairs without bothering with the lights and collapses into his chair.

There's a sound from the kitchen and he flinches, head darting around to see Sherlock with a pipette in his hand. He regards John for a long moment, then nods decisively and puts the pipette down.

“Hot chocolate. That's your usual cure for malneirophrenia, isn't it?”

John has to concentrate to be in the present enough to realise he doesn't recognise the word. “Mal-what?”

Sherlock sighs as he fills two mugs with too much chocolate powder. “Malneirophrenia,” he repeats. “The distressed state of mind following a nightmare. Really, John, a doctor should have a better vocabulary.”

“I'm a soldier too,” John says. “That comes with a different vocabulary.” He can still hear Carter's voice, stringing together every swearword he knew as the blood seeped out of the ruin of his leg.

“Under the current circumstances, malneirophrenia is more useful than any swear word.”

It's been months since John was in a warzone, and yet this is the fourth night in a row that he's been woken by a nightmare. He rather thinks he needs both.

 

 **Sororicide: killing of a sister/ Uxoricide: killing of a wife.**

It had taken the Yard just over fourteen hours to decide that Patricia Highton's brother was responsible for her murder. It takes Sherlock less than ten seconds to cut into Donovan's explanation of the evidence with an impassioned rant.

“No! No, no, NO! How can you be so completely wrong every time you try to use your brains? Of course it's not sororicide! You must be able to see that it's uxoricide! Didn't you see her necklace?!”

John, standing in the corner and trying to avoid the glares everyone is directing at Sherlock, surreptitiously pulls out his phone. Right, if fratricide is killing a brother, than sororicide must be killing a sister, that one is obvious enough. Uxoricide, though – killing an ox? Unlikely. He opens the dictionary app that he'd made Harry download for him.

The phone is back in John's pocket by the time Sherlock has finished his tirade. “We're leaving,” he announces.

“We're going to find evidence of the husband's guilt?” asks John.

Sherlock turns back to the glaring policemen. “See? Even John gets it, and he's a doctor, not a detective. Not that any of you lot really counts as a detective.”

John tries to ignore the twin feelings of smug pride and vague guilt as he follows Sherlock out of the building.

 

 **Lapidation: the act of stoning someone.**

“Fascinating bruise pattern,” Sherlock murmurs. He bends closer to look at one of the bruises, noting the pattern of blood around it. He's only seen this in books before. “It was lapidation.”

There's a pause from behind him, then the unmistakable sound of John reaching for his phone in what he thinks is a stealthy manner. Sherlock adds yet another word to his ever-growing list of 'apparently 'normal' people don't use these in conversation' and keeps his eyes on the corpse to allow John time to look it up.

How John can think that Sherlock hasn't noticed his little dictionary app trick is another of the endless mysteries about the man. Or maybe he knows that Sherlock knows, and thinks it's just a little game between them, both of them pretending that John always knows what Sherlock's talking about. Sherlock rather likes the idea of that kind of unspoken agreement between them.

“I don't understand,” says John a few minutes later, his phone safely tucked away again. “If it was lapidation, then where are all the stones?”

Sherlock can't prevent the proud smile. John has already managed to ask a relevant question, and Lestrade is still waiting for Sherlock to say something he can understand. A warm surge of gratitude for John's existence passes through Sherlock's body.

 

 **Anophelosis: a morbid state caused by extreme frustration/ Floccinaucinihilipilification: the action or habit of estimating everything as worthless/ Exoteric: ordinary or simple/ Anguineous: like a snake.**

Mycroft enters 221B and sits down in John's chair as if he deserves to be there. Sherlock glares at him from the sofa. “Get out.”

“I've brought you work,” says Mycroft, holding up a folder. “Given your current descent into anophelosis, I thought you'd be grateful.”

John comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a teatowel. Sherlock watches his eyes flick to his phone, out-of-reach on the table.

“I'll never be bored enough to need your cases,” says Sherlock.

“It was not the frustration of boredom that I was referring to,” says Mycroft. His eyes move to John, then back to Sherlock. He pins on a bland smile. “Mummy would be so pleased to know that someone has finally broken through your tendency towards floccinaucinihilipilification.”

John makes a pained noise and Sherlock knows he is despairing of ever being able to spell that one well enough to look it up.

He snatches the folder from Mycroft and flicks through it, if only to keep him from giving Sherlock away by saying more, in plainer language.

“Exoteric,” he pronounces.

“Then you should have no trouble solving it,” says Mycroft, standing. He nods at John. “Good day, Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock scowls at his back as he leaves and mutters, “Anguineous bastard.”

 

 **Aposiopesis: leaving a statement incomplete in order to imply a threat.**

“Sometimes it's like trying to understand a foreign language with you two,” says John once Mycroft has left.

Sherlock makes a huffing noise. He picks up John's phone from the table and fiddles with it for a moment, then throws it towards him. John catches it more by luck than skill and looks down to see that Sherlock has already brought up his dictionary app and filled in 'floccinaucinihilipilification'.

“The act or habit of describing things as unimportant,” reads John. “Yeah, that sounds like you.” He taps at the phone. “Anguineous. Snake-like. And that definitely sounds like Mycroft.”

“I am always accurate with my words, where possible,” says Sherlock, picking up the folder Mycroft left as if it's diseased. He looks over at the bin.

“Oh, no,” steps in John quickly. It's been three weeks since Sherlock last had a case, and he hasn't moved from the sofa in two days. “You're taking that case, so help me, or I'll...” He trails off with a glare.

Sherlock looks amused. “Aposiopesis really doesn't suit you, John.”

John sighs and opens his app again. “Oh, that can't be a real word,” he says, reading it. “Who came up with that?”

Sherlock just settles back on the sofa with the folder, smirking a bit.

 

 **Brannigan: a drinking spree.**

John somehow manages to fall up the last two steps of the stairs from the hall, landing with an 'ooph' sound and then lying, giggling to himself for several minutes before pulling himself upright, making it into the sitting room and collapsing into his chair.

“I perceive you've had a good night,” says Sherlock.

John beams. “I have,” he says. “I really have. And!” He points a wavering finger at Sherlock. “I have a word for you!”

Sherlock sets his book aside in favour of observing his drunken blogger. “Go on,” he says, wondering if his assistance will be needed to get John to bed, and if he'll be able to sneak a grope as he does so.

“Brannigan!” announces John. “I means, it means-” There's a pause as he thinks. “It means drunken party. Spree. Thing,” he finishes.

“That sounds more like a word for you than me,” says Sherlock.

“No, no,” says John. “You're the one with the big vocabulary.” He has to slow down in the middle of the word to get the syllables out in the right order. “And the big brain. I have-” He stops and frowns. “What do I have?”

“A blood-alcohol level that would make the British Medical Association blanch?”

 

 **Callipygian: having shapely buttocks.**

John heads straight for the washing machine when they get back to Baker Street.

“I can't believe how sticky this stuff is,” he says, starting to take off his sodden, mud-streaked clothes. “Or how much it smells.”

“The Thames has been used as general rubbish tip for centuries,” says Sherlock, following him. “The mud consists of-”

“Stop,” interrupts John, stuffing his shirt into the machine. “No telling me what I'm covered in until I've had a shower.” He starts the tricky task of peeling his jeans off. “Or several showers,” he adds, bending over to wrestle the bloody things off over his feet.

There is blissful silence from behind him. He concentrates on getting the jeans off and shoving the sopping mess into the machine.

“Callipygian,” says Sherlock in a hushed voice.

John freezes for an instant, then turns. “What-”

Sherlock shakes himself as if coming out of a reverie. “It means 'covered in goosebumps',” he says too quickly. “Make sure it's a hot shower.” He sweeps off to his room without waiting for a response.

 _No, it doesn't,_ thinks John. _I know that one._ He grins to himself, thinking that this deserves exploring. Who knew that the list of things that Sherlock liked about John would include his buttocks?

 

 **Ophthalmospintherism: seeing spots in front of your eyes.**

There's blood at John's hairline. Sherlock hauls him to his feet and holds him up by his shoulders when it looks as if he's wavering, then peers at his pupils.

“Are you okay?” he asks, the far-too-familiar rush of panic from seeing John get hurt still running through his veins. “John, say you're okay.”

“I'm fine,” says John, but there's a slur to his words that Sherlock doesn't trust.

“Are you experiencing ophthalmospintherism?” he asks, bringing one hand to cup John's cheek and steady his head so that he can peer at the wound.

John's just giving him a dazed look. Sherlock sighs. “It means seeing spots in-”

“I know what it means,” interrupts John. “I am a doctor, you know. I'm fine, Sherlock.”

Something about the tone of his voice makes Sherlock realise just how close they are and for a moment he contemplates pulling back, but something about the soft look in John's eyes holds him in place.

“I'm fine,” repeats John, and closes the distance to press a kiss against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock freezes and John looks worried. “Is that okay?” he asks.

Sherlock has lost all his words. The only way he knows how to respond is to return the kiss and let John also steal his breath.


End file.
